


Belfast Confetti

by herelittlefish



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:00:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25079521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herelittlefish/pseuds/herelittlefish
Summary: Short story inspired by the Ciarán Carson poem also entitled 'Belfast Confetti'. The poem explores psychological confusion amidst a riot, and is based upon the sectarian conflict in Northern Ireland, where my father is from. Originally written as part of my English Literature GCSE portfolio when I was about 15? 16? Still somewhat proud of it half a decade later.'Love thy neighbour’, God says.Yet no love is lost when I feel a bottle crash into my head, fuelled by the hatred of the young girl across the road.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Belfast Confetti

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Belfast Confetti](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/643096) by Ciarán Carson. 



We are one people.

At least, we’re meant to be. But to the cowering child on the side of the street; to the man throwing grenades at his neighbour; to the elderly woman thumping the car across the road with the wrong number-plate, this fierce conflict is a battle of two sides.

Which two?

No one knows.

Is it for independence?

Some people I know say yes. They insist that they feel marginalised by the other side. That if they do not fight for what is rightfully theirs, they will lose their homes and their traditions that simply cannot, _will not_ be destroyed by their villainous oppressors. “Our heritage is ours,” they chorus, “And we have the right to be proud of it.” Flags of emerald green and royal blue fly side by side, proudly displaying that their side is better and that nothing _you_ do can compare to what we have already. Hundreds of plain churches surround the grand cathedrals, poised to attack. Their congregations hold crucifixes to ward off not the devil, but something that is, in their minds, infinitely more evil. Glares of steel are exchanged across garden walls.

‘Love thy neighbour’, God says.

Yet no love is lost when I feel a bottle crash into my head, fuelled by the hatred of the young girl across the road.

It starts off with words.

“Táig. Scum. Traitor.” Each one punctuated with a stone bullet, aimed at my legs. I continue walking. More words start to flow out of her twelve year-old mouth, all more horrible and hateful and derogatory than the last. I ignore her. She has been spoon-fed these thoughts, like myself, since before we were out of the womb. I think to myself that if I _can just get past the hedge, past that one sacred boundary, I’ll be safe and –_

She pounces. I fall to the ground, arms braced. My body is flipped over and I am left exposed. Her hands flailing, she attacks my face, my neck, whatever she can see that is vulnerable. I try to raise my arms, but fail. She continues her assault, leaving scarlet trails all over my arms. I kick. She kicks back. I bare my teeth in warning. She growls in return. I scream. She halts for a minute, startled by the noise. With this opportunity, I strike. I shove her downwards and use the momentum to propel myself forwards. My legs ache. My lungs burn. But I’m almost safe.

_Just one step more-_

And then it hits me. Literally.

As I writhe on the ground in pain, I realise that I am not safe here. Even in my own neighbourhood; my own street; my own bloody front door, I will not be safe until they can no longer see me. Silently, I curse my mother for her decision to uproot us from safety in efforts to ‘integrate’ with the others. We do not integrate; we separate. This is the only way we can co-exist without war.

The news speaks of wars and riots in Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria. They tell us of terrorists who kill their own brothers in faith because they follow the ‘wrong’ path. Warn us of governments who kill their own people because they dare to speak against injustice. Shock us with brothers who kill their own flesh-and-blood sisters because they have brought dishonour to the family. But no one speaks of the conflict here. We remain silent.

Until the marches start.

At first, you hear the proud voices floating in the air. They sing of success and victory. Drums are drummed, cymbals are crashed, supporters clap to usher in their heroes who bravely stand up for _their_ ancestors and celebrate _their_ culture. People wave their miniature Union Jacks; yells of ‘All Hail Britannia!’ and ‘God Save the Queen!’ are echoed from Shankill Road to Falls Road and from Cluan Place to Short Strand. Then hell is unleashed.

Green pounces on Orange. From the West, the Tricolour is raised. In retaliation, a Union Jack joins it. They stand strong and proud under the weeping sky. Mothers and fathers drag their children away by arms and legs, but they cannot and will not succeed in removing them completely from the conflict. Their eyes absorb the drummer, draped in red and blue, beating up the defenseless green grocer. Their ears ring with the insults tossed from East to West, in English and Irish and an unintelligible mix of the two. Their mouths are filled with the unmistakeable taste of liquid iron. Smoke fills their lungs, and they choke. Shreds of green and orange and red and blue fall from the sky in a cloud of Belfast confetti. They cannot, _will_ not forget this.

They can’t afford to.

The United Kingdom treats Northern Ireland as one entity. We are treated as one people.

But we are _not_ meant to be.


End file.
